Percy Jackson & the Lightning ToyBoy
by Missus Hemsworth
Summary: With the Titans thwarted, and Annabeth increasingly angsty unfortunately expressed in the form of poetry , Percy finds unexpected solace in a newcomer to Camp Half-Blood, James who is just trying to shed his past as a dyslexic ADD misfit from high school


So it was totally a sunny (but not too sunny ie. you didn't need sunglasses unless you looked directly into the sun, which I don't suggest) summers day in the middle of May. Percy Jackson was busy being a demi-god/hero and owning it like it was nobody's business. More specifically he was on a quest.  
Ever since Olympus had been saved by a certain young black-haired, green-eyed scrumptious piece of ass, who shall remain nameless (that means Percy by the way), Chiron had him doing drudge duty; picking up young demigods on the verge of discovering their true nature. Sometimes ones destiny tastes like candy, but not always. Percy didn't mind that much though, because Annabeth was starting to grind his gears like that DeLorean from Back to the Future. Ever since they had danced with death atop Olympus, she had metamorphosed into a mopey, whiny goth girl. It was so bad that Nico was in danger of losing his place as Camp Half-Blood's foremost mopey, whiny goth girl. So at least he had an excuse to avoid one of Annabeth's spontaneous poetry-sharing sessions.

Honestly, Percy knew nothing more awkward (apart from having sex sober) than having to read somebody else's poetry. Especially the part where they stare at your face as you read it, as though attempting to translate somebody's deepest emotions and feelings from flowery, imprecise metaphor into something understandable wasn't hard enough without having to display appropriate facial expressions for Annabeth's consumption. At least he didn't have to listen to her read it, meaning he could avoid having to fake being emotionally affected by her bizarre metaphors about how flowers and petals grow or some sort of gardening crap. Not to mention poetry is actually supposed to rhyme. Percy just wished he could say that to her, but of course that would erase any chances of 'tang' in the near future.

So Percy went to go grab his best friend slash pet goat Grover to accompany him on this less than world-altering quest, but he no longer felt comfortable around Grover, ever since he had stopped wearing pants about 50 pages into the first book of the series. So Percy went alone, apart from his trusty sword Ripcurl.

'Hit the showers' said Coach (He had no name, no identity apart from his mediocre and unfulfilling job. His part in the story is done though, so his lack of an identity doesn't really matter).

'Hit the showers?' James, class misfit, saw an opportunity to turn his high school years around with a witty retort that would win him acclaim, affection and acceptance, not to mention admiration, from his peers.

'But Coach,' he enquired diffidently. 'Wouldn't it be more efficient to shower in the showers rather than hit them?'

Sadly, his peers were less than awestruck by his play on words, as expressed by a number of jockstraps hitting him squarely in the face.

'Shut up, misfit!' chorused the class in such perfect unison it seemed rehearsed, but probably wasn't, because nobody cared that much about James.

Damn, thought James. Not just damn, but double damn with a side of ham! I should've said 'Hit them with what Coach.' He imagined how different his life would be if he had. Right now, his ears would be ringing with applause and exclamations of 'Good one' and variations upon that phrase, instead of being covered with nigh-on twenty pairs of jockstraps.

Wait a second! Where had the twentieth pair come from? There were only 19 of them in the locker-room, even including Coach.

But then James saw a stranger standing in the doorway or, to be more precise, a black-haired, green-eyed scrumptious piece of ass (literally, since the jockstrap once covering the two mounds of hairy muscle was currently sliding down his nose).

While James was busy experiencing a slow-motion rendition of that song they play in movies when some hot chick enters, Percy Jackson walked his butt right in that door, then covered up the same butt with his jockstrap.

'Hey kid' said Percy, in a really cool way. 'If you're done sniffing jockstraps and being a dyslexic ADHD misfit in a poorly funded inner city high school, come with me.'

'More like jokestraps,' joked James nervously.

But Percy, who didn't believe in perverting his sense of humours to satisfy somebody else's cravings for self-esteem, marshalled the extensive reserves of willpower needed to resist that pervasive social pressure to fake-laugh or weakly smile at the unfunny jokes of other people (like James, for instance). This wasn't because Percy wanted James to feel uncomfortable, but rather on principle. Percy strongly believed that fake-laughing and weakly smiling at jokes which deserved neither was contributing to a decline in the standard of American jokes in general, and he was determined to halt this decline – single-handedly, if necessary.

It was for those reasons, then, that Percy stared coldly at the nervous youngster who had put himself out there, made himself vulnerable, just on the off-chance of building a rapport, and possibly a friendship, with this handsome stranger who had just walked out of his dreams and into his life. But even though James' heart had lurched just a little lower (figuratively, of course) with that cold, unyielding stare he still had hope. Hope that following this stranger would somehow lead to a better life than his current misfit status in a poorly funded inner high school which was full of minorities, not that James was racist or anything but statistics don't lie, you know?

So as James stepped through the gym-room door, following in the wake of Percy, with his eyes fixed to that perky, uptight ass, leaving behind many things. His misfit status, hopefully. 19 jockstraps, certainly. A sense of humour that seemed to be at odds with everybody else's senses of humour, sadly not.


End file.
